


V.A. Returns.

by RT Fice (RT_Fice)



Category: Batman Returns, Dumbo (2019)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Dry Humping, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Humor, Murder, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Woman, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RT_Fice/pseuds/RT%20Fice
Summary: It's Christmas Eve in New York City, 2021.  V.A. Vandevere, billionaire playboy and Impresario of Dreamland, leads a secret, double life.  Milly Farrier, 18, leads a miserable life as the intern of billionaire financier J.G. Remington.  Their paths cross, triggering murder, a robbery at Cartier's, and inescapable lust.A crossover of Dumbo 2019 and Batman Returns.
Relationships: Milly Farrier & V. A. Vandevere, Milly Farrier/V. A. Vandevere
Comments: 12
Kudos: 9





	1. Kitty, It's Cold Outside.

“Boring . . .boring . . .”

Broadway and Hollywood impresario V.A. Vandevere scrolled through his emails. His laptop sat on the Art Deco desk of his lofty office in the Power Tower. Below, solar-fueled Christmas lights brightened Dreamland, his giant theme park, granting color to the soft dusting of sparkling snow.

His desk lamp remained off. Vandevere preferred the shadows.

Only forty, his hair was already almost completely silver, a gift from his mother's DNA he hadn't know about until her death, when her GP told him she'd been coloring it blonde since she was twenty-one. He refused to dye his own hair, on principal. Though he'd considered it might be helpful to not have such an identifying marker in certain circumstances.

The frosted glass office doors parted. Sotheby, the butler, never announced himself. More often than not, his employer of many decades wouldn't have noticed if he did. Even as he didn't notice him now.

“Sir,” said Sotheby.

V.A. made some sort of noise of distracted acknowledgment as he deleted emails.

“There's a photojournalist insisting on an audience.”

“Tell her to get in line,” V.A. muttered.

“ _Cheri,_ this is why I like late hours. There _is_ no line.” The woman strode past Sotheby, camera dangling around the fur trim of her sharp, stylish camel hair coat. She leaned on the desk, smirking. “Oh, and what a shock to see you are _alone_.”

After a deep sigh Vandevere said, pointedly, “What we had doesn't give you special _entre_ into my world, Ms. Marchant.”

“I am here only on the _professional_ basis.” Award-winning photojournalist Colette Marchant Vale straightened, crossing her arms. “There is talk this Man Bat some claim to see, he is an actor from your Nightmare Island. Care to comment?”

V.A. wrinkled his nose at her. “The Man what?”

“Do not feign ignorance! I know you read my paper!”

“I read your paper. I don't read _your_ articles, the ones with your photos. Especially when they take a turn toward cryptozoology.” He shut down his laptop. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“I do not report that it is true.” The beautiful woman with the black pageboy hair snorted. “I report what others say, then I see what is or isn't. And a man who looks like a vampire bat, this I would not put past you. To attract visitors!”

“Dreamland isn't lacking visitors. And I thought this bat thing was supposedly scaring petty thugs and crooks. No actor would go that far, and risk being hurt or killed. Or have to kill in self-defense."

“The Man Bat does not kill.” Colette hesitated, and amended, “As far as we know.”

“Whatever. No actor I employ would face New York criminals for a paycheck.”

“Unless these lowlifes, they are _also_ part of the act. Do you have a comment?”

“You're not a journalist, you take pictures. Does your editor know you're trying to pass yourself off as a reporter?”

“Sir,” said Sotheby, “as much as I'm sure the both of you are enjoying this delightful reunion, there are things that need attending.”

“Reunion. HA!” Colette headed for the door. She paused and sent a withering look over her shoulder. “For getting _moi_ this job, I am grateful. For standing me up, time and time again, for your secrets piled so high I could not see over them, for your being _le playboy_ , these all I am relieved to leave behind. That, and your _penchant_ for the night.”

“You _love_ night life. And who says ' _playboy_ ' anymore?” said Vandevere.

“If you are involved in this Bat mystery, I will find out!” she called as Sotheby closed the door after her.

“Don't let her in again,” said Vandevere.

“She's a hard woman to deny, Master Vandevere.”

“And don't call me that.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Isn't there a Board meeting at eight?”

“No, sir, you're dining with New York's Ice Princess.”

“Wasn't she just here?” V.A. laughed. When Sotheby didn't, he waited to be filled in.

“Dinner is just before you escort the dear to Rockefeller Center, where she will press a button and light up the city Christmas tree. Try not to let her become too enamored of you, or drunk.”

“I love Christmas,” V.A. said, bitterly.  
  


* * *

  
“I love Christmas!” Clara Clarke, the 2021 Ice Princess, was wearing her costume at the restaurant in the exclusive City Club. The club's dress code most likely didn't include a metallic silver and black corset with white fur trim. But Vandevere was filthy rich and beyond famous, so, as always, allowances were made to please him.

V.A. smiled gamely and took a small bite of his Osso Buco with Saffron Risotto. He was relieved that he didn't have to put on his Showman persona right now. The girl was doing most, no, _all_ of the talking, so he could actually get in a meal.

“Mr. Vandevere. What a pleasure.”

Inhaling between gritted teeth, V.A. looked up.

Billionaire financier J.G. Remington had a new toupee. This one didn't look as if his son at his side, Neils, had stomped and skinned a muskrat.

“Merry Christmas, V.A.” Remington held out his hand.

Showtime. “Hail and well met, my old fellow!” Vandevere shook it heartily. “Have you come to see the stupendous tree Dreamland has provided New York this festive eve? I promise, when Miss . . um . . .” He squinted imploringly at the blonde girl.

“Clara Clarke,” she prompted, with a well-practiced smile.

“ . . flicks the switch, you'll be dazzled!”

Remington grunted. “Always a Showman. Nice to see you at the Club again. We billionaires gotta stick together. You know my son, Neils.”

“By reputation, of course.” V.A. nodded in greeting. Neils didn't. He stood over six feet, wearing a suit better for tracking in the veld than heading security at Atlas Forge, including boots of a leather provided by an animal on the endangered species list.

“Are you important or something?” The Ice Princess beamed at the old man, ready to switch alliances in a heartbeat.

Remington straightened. Despite being able to afford the best dental attention invented, his feral smile was the yellow of old ivory billiard balls. “I'm only the man who's gonna be standing next to _you_ when you light up the tree, baby. How about _that_?”

Sensing another presence, V.A. moved back farther in his chair, peering past the old man. A young woman, college age perhaps, was eclipsed by Remington. She wore an over-size, mousy brown coat, mousy beige blouse, and mousy dark brown skirt over mousy brown heels whose toes had scrape marks, as if she'd bought them used. The only things not mousy brown was her shining, thick, tightly-curled chestnut hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. And her skin, which was rich, warm, and glowing, like melted caramel.

Clutching a huge folder, she waited behind Remington like a servant. Behind glasses with huge frames were enormous green eyes framed by thick, long black lashes, under which she shyly was watching him.

V.A. swallowed and caught his breath. “J.G. . . . You haven't introduced us.”

As if forgetting the girl's existence, Remington glanced behind him. “What? Her? She's nothing. An intern. Does a decent enough job filing research shit. Claims to use a 'scientific method,' or some such crap.”

“You're Mr. V.A. Vandevere.” Her voice was a warm and feminine as her beautiful face.

It was several seconds before V.A. was able to speak. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss . . .?”

The girl shrugged. “Nobody. Miss Nobody. Also known as 'that girl,' and 'hey you' ' and,” she blushed, “some names I'd prefer to forget.”

His well-honed instincts recognized self-depreciation as a defense mechanism. He fought back his urge to rescue her from whatever was making her feel inferior. She didn't need his help. “You must be very good at research to be at Atlas Forge at all.”

“She's good,” said Remington with a bored tone. “And cheap. No family to stay with for the holidays, so I'm making use of her while everybody else's on vacation.” Impatient, he grunted, “Enough about the help. I just wanted to assure you that we're keeping a special eye on all your money for you, Mr. Vandevere, sir. We appreciate every cent.”

“And _I_ appreciate _that_. I truly enjoyed the Christmas fruit basket. Tropical fruit is good for the heart!”

Remington rolled his eyes at his son without trying to hide it.

Looking at the intern, V.A.'s mind ceased to operate smoothly. Something about her, _everything_ about her, even her delightfully tangled ponytail, hooked him in a way he'd never experienced before. When his mouth managed to form words, he couldn't think of what to say. He clumsily blurted, by way of an ice breaker, “I hope you received a splendid holiday bonus!”

“What bonus?” said Remington. “She's an _intern_.”

“I made rent this month,” said the young woman with a weak smile. “Just.”

Remington stepped in front of her, once again blocking her from V.A.'s view. “S'anyway, you come to the big tree lighting thingy. Maybe sweet tits here will come sit on Santa's lap, huh?” Remington gave the Ice Princess' shoulder a pinch. She squealed and laughed.

Behind him, the girl's voice said, “Mr. Remington, I really need to go over that discovery I made . . ?”

“What? Again you're bugging me about that? Allright! I gotta get my alpaca coat from my office, we'll go there.” He turned to V.A. “Merry fucking Christmas and Kwanza and Hanukkah and whatever the fuck, Vandevere.”

“You too! And you, Miss . . ?”

Remington and Neils bookended the young woman. She smiled wanly at V.A. and shrugged once more. But this time her gaze lingered on his face, as if memorizing it. When her eyes met his her eyebrows shot up, her nose reddened, and she quickly looked away. The next moment she was out the door, into the snowy Christmas Eve night.

In all his days hiding behind the persona of V.A. Vandevere, Impresario Extraordinaire, movie producer, Broadway heavyweight, of course he'd heard of love at first sight. Hadn't he produced a multi-Tony-winning production of _South Pacific_? And heard “Some Enchanted Evening?” until he was sick of it? He didn't believe in that bunkum. He knew far better than others the darkness in the human heart. He _staged_ fairy tales, he didn't mistake them for truth.

But from the moment the girl lifted her head and looked at him . . .

“You keep looking at her as if she's pretty.” Clara Clarke's tone disapproved. “You're supposed to be paying attention to _me_. _She's_ not even wearing mascara.”

“Doesn't need it,” V.A. muttered, staring longingly at the door. But it was more than prettiness. Or beauty. He didn't have time to figure it out. He'd call Remington after the New Year and inquire, politely, without urgency, what her name was.  
  


* * *

  
J.G. Remington slumped into the chair behind his huge, ancient wooden desk, making a sound of discomfort and complaint. It was enough to snap Milly from her repeatedly running the image of that man through her mind until it was a muddle. Sure, she'd seen Vandevere's face on TV, online, on advertising in the subway and bus shelters more times than she could count. Dad had even talked about maybe doing business with him. As far as she knew, V.A.V. was just another stuffed shirt, over-the-top Hollywood-Broadway type, insincere and vain.

Until he looked up from his dinner and at her . . . .

“So. Miss Farrier.”

Irritation brought Milly back to herself. “Ms.”

“You kidding me? Who even uses that in this day and age? How do you even _know_ about that? You're, what? Sixteen?”

“Eighteen. And I like history.”

“That's history, all right. History like all those fucking feminists. Don't use that word in my presence.” The financier's fingers, gnarled with arthritis, rapped on the desktop. “What's so urgent you had to show me? Today, of all days?”

Cautiously, Milly stated, “I was afraid if I didn't point it out now, it might . . .disappear over the holidays.”

“ _What_ disappear?”

Apologetically, she placed the files on the desk in front of him. “I . . just noticed a couple discrepancies. About funds going to your favorite charities?”

“I give to a lot of charities. I'm a charitable man.”

“But . . the funds aren't going where they're supposed to. In fact . . .they kind of disappear.”

The elderly man inhaled slowly through his nose. His head swiveled to Milly and his eyes fixed on her like hooks. “They what?”

“Mr. Remington, look.” Milly spread the printouts across the desk in front of the banker. She explained the details on one page, and another. “But here . . . You can see it says a million went to the new homeless shelter . . . but it took a turn to an off-shore account. In . . . .the Bahamas. To something that's . . . a resort, I think? And . . . I can't find where the money comes _back_ to the charity.”

Remington nodded and stuck out his lower lip. “Interesting. Interesting. You shown this to anybody else?”

“Well, no, Mr. Remington. Because there's really nothing to show. I mean, just this. But I think there's more. No, I'm _sure_ of it. I just . . . It looked funny, so I explored.” She laughed weakly. “Dad says I have the curiosity of a cat.”

The financier's voice was chilly. “And on whose authority did you go digging?”

Milly shivered. “Sir?”

“Who gave you clearance to sniff around in data no intern is ever supposed to see?”

“I . . . guess I got a little carried away . . .I did an end run, sort of, um, fiddled with passwords?”

“Such a smart girl.” His smile bared his yellowed teeth. “Who's now out of a job. Hand over your security tag.”

“What?”

“Neils.”

The tall, bald man gripped Milly's wrist with his right hand so powerfully her glasses tipped and slid off her face. His left hand yanked her purse off her shoulder. He dumped the contents onto the desk and took the security pass and a memory stick.

“That's mine!” Milly cried, grappling for the stick. Neils shoved her away with ease. He handed the stick to his father.

“Does this have that info on it?” Remington snarled.

Milly, who was terrible at lying, stammered.

“Then you as good as stole company information! In breach of the contract you signed with my company in order to work here!”

“I have personal things on that, too!”

“Personal things on a company stick? Another breach!” Remington rose to his feet. He leaned over the girl and glared like a rheumy vulture. “Count yourself lucky I'm not having you arrested for corporate theft. All I'm gonna do is fire your ass, effective immediately. You will keep your lovely yap slammed shut, or you'll hear from my $3000 an hour attorneys. I'll grant you the dignity of leaving without security escort. _Get out_.”

Staggering backward, Milly bumped into an office chair, heard her glasses crunch under her heel, turned herself around, and hurried out to the elevators.

After she was gone, Remington muttered to Neils, “You know what to do.”

* * *

  
Mayor Maximilian Medici peered up at V.A. Vandevere. The snow drifted down into his face, so he cocked his top hat forward, so its brim protected his eyes.

The crowd around Rockefeller center _oohed_ and applauded the towering, brightly lit Christmas tree, as if it had entered on cue.

“Yer not stayin'?” asked the Mayor.

“I've delivered the Ice Princess after a,” he groped for a harmless word that wasn't a lie but wasn't insulting, “nice dinner. I did all the photo ops with her I agreed to. I'm going home.”

“What is with you? Where's th' Showman? Where's th' Mastermind of Dreamland? You got no energy tonight. C'mon, there's gonna be parties past midnight, t' welcome Christmas! Excellent booze! Girls! Lots of girls! They heard you were coming, they all but killed each other t' get tickets! The bachelor billionaire playboy!” Medici laughed. Seeing the impresario's grim face, he whispered, “Ya not into girls?”

“I am. But not . . .” _not them_ , he thought, picturing the girl he couldn't get out of his mind. “Not tonight. Too much champagne with the Princess.”

“I got ya. Between you and me, ten minutes with her'll drive anybody to drink. Except him.” The short man sneered as J.G. Remington's Town Car drove up to the grand stand. He turned his head to see the Vandevere walking toward his limousine. “Merry Christmas an' Happy Hanukkah, pal!”

“You too, Max.”

“You're sulking,” said Sotheby as Vandevere closed the back door.

“Why would I be doing that?” V.A. sulked.

“Ah, silly me. You love a good brood. Miss Clarke wasn't enticement enough?” Sotheby nodded toward the small screen in the limousine's dashboard. “I saw her on the telly. Such good bones. And she enunciated at least half of her words with great sincerity.”

V.A. glared out the tinted window as the car drove through the thickening snowfall.

“But then, you haven't been enticed for quite a while, have you?” Sotheby couldn't resist poking. “To be forty and bored with sex. Thank god that never happened to me.”

V.A. raised an eyebrow.

From the rear-view mirror his butler, friend, and confidant looked back primly. “It's a big house. And it's none of your beeswax.”

“And _my_ sex life is none of your --- “ Vandevere's eyes clamped on the figure standing in front of Cartier's, gazing in the window. “ _Stop the car_.”

* * *

Her purse was empty of everything except her keys, wallet, and state I.D. Like an idiot she'd left her debit card at home, wrapped in aluminum foil, in the refrigerator, because there'd been a rash of card scanner fraud in her neighborhood. She'd had cash enough for lunch. The ten dollars that remained wasn't enough for a taxi home.

Milly stared at the magnificent jewelry because her mind had shut down from shock. It was a good thing she didn't actually need glasses; she'd thought they would deter unwanted advances from men who thought she looked to nerdy. They were as useless at that as they were for sight. She was a bit aware that snow was beginning to bury her high heels, and her toes were uncomfortably cold, probably headed toward dangerous numbness, but she couldn't yet figure out what to do about it. Wistfully admiring the beautiful, winking diamonds, rubies, and emeralds gave her an escape.

So much so that she didn't see the tall figure in elephant-hide boots who'd been following her slink into the closest alley. And wait.

“Mom's dead,” Milly muttered. “Dad . . .I can't tell Dad. The lecture would last till New Year's. Yes, Dad, I should have stayed in the family business.”

“Hey. Are you OK?”

Startled, she stepped back, her hand automatically diving into the big pocket of her frumpy, over-sized coat and gripping her pepper spray.

 _Him._ Milly blinked, her heart kicking into a faster pace. What was it about him? Besides being devastatingly handsome. _What is it with me and older men?_ she whimpered internally. _I refuse to believe it's Daddy Issues. This man's not that old. Forty's not old, right? He's so fit he looks younger. But that silver hair is so distinguished . . ._ She swallowed hard.

Vandevere swallowed in sync with her and smiled. “That coat's not really made for winter. Neither are those shoes.”

Milly grinned self-consciously and blurted, “I'm a college student. None of us have sense.”

 _Humor. When was the last time any woman I dated had a sense of humor of her own, rather than laughing at my feeble jokes?_ “Take it from me, fashion isn't worth the frostbite. Can I give you a ride home?

The impulse to say _Yes!_ was quashed by the realization that he was a friend of the man who'd sent her packing into the snowstorm. Not wanting to incur the wrath of yet another privileged, filthy-rich white man, Milly substituted her real reason with one that was true, though not one she cared about. “Dad says I'm not supposed to take rides with strangers.”

Normally, his invitation would have been eagerly snapped up. Her refusal threw him. “Well, you're an adult. Legally. And we've met. And this, this is Sotheby.” He stepped aside so his butler could be seen through the driver's window. “So now you've met him, too.”

Milly bent down to look. The older man smiled warmly and lifted his fingers off the steering wheel in greeting. “He calls you by one name?” she asked. “Isn't that kind of insulting?”

“Oh, no, miss. It puts me in rarefied air with others with solo monikers. Liberace. Twiggy. Madonna. Cher. Bono. Oh. You'll not have heard of them, I imagine. In case you hadn't realized, I'm an antique.”

Milly grinned. “ _He_ should be driving _you_.”

“Hey,” said V.A., sensing competition. “ _I'm_ the one that said to stop the car.”

With a pained expression, Sotheby said, “Please get in, miss, or he'll stay here until you do. And we both of us aren't fond of Christmas Eve crowds.”

Warily, she lifted her eyes and looked at Vandevere's face. The blue of his eyes seemed backlit. Like the sapphires in the jewelry case. She'd never been fond of blue eyes. They struck her as cold. But his, somehow they glowed. And his lips. Normally, full lips on white men looked odd to her. But his weren't overstuffed. They looked firm, comfortable. Moist, but not wet. Parted, she saw a trace of an overbite. It struck her immediately as endearing. And . . .sexy.

Her jeweled, emerald irises gently gazing up through the veil of her lashes, then her pupils expanding, riveted him. He was mildly aware of snowflakes melting on his cashmere scarf and trickling down the back of his neck, which amplified the shiver he already had. His mouth fell open, but he couldn't utter a sound.

A taxi honking at Christmas shoppers startled them both. The interruption angered her, and that anger carried forward to what had just happened with Remington. _Don't trust men. Especially those who can ruin your life without a thought._ She frowned and shook her head. “I'm sure you have better things to do.” Her eyes turned harsh. “I know _I_ do.”

Trying to suppress his keen disappointment, Vandevere took out his wallet and removed two hundred dollar bills. “Take a cab, at least. Waiting for the train or the bus, you'll lose toes. And buy a winter coat and boots.”

 _Men with money. So much money he can offer two hundred dollars without even thinking about it. I've never seen two hundred dollars in cash in my entire life_. Dropping all pleasantry from her face, she said, “I can't take that.”

Disappointment shifted into resentment. V.A. technically understood why she'd be wary of any man. But she had to know it was just as dangerous to go home alone using public transportation. _More_ dangerous. She was shivering, so she had to feel the cold. “You mean you _won't._ Because, obviously, you can.”

“No means no. Have you ever heard that? And I don't need some rich old man to take care of me,” she snapped. “Especially one who doesn't even know the price of _clothes_.”

 _Old_ hit him like a slap. “And I don't need a college student to insult me.” He placed the bills on the snow, then straightened and glared at her. “For whoever wants it.”

Like a sewer rat a scrawny guy in denim and an old Army jacket ran from an alley, grabbed the money with a cry of “ _Yoink!_ ” and sprinted into the crowd.

”He took your money,” Milly said, smugly.

“He took _your_ money,” V.A. retorted.

“That doesn't bother you?”

“Does it bother _you?_ ”

“If I want an echo I'll talk into the Grand Canyon.”

Burning with embarrassment for what he felt toward her and by how soundly his gesture had been rebuked, Vandevere slid into the limo's back seat.

“I'm _fine_ , Mr. Capitalist one-per-center.” Blinking snowflakes from her lashes, Milly added, sourly, “I'm hunky-dory. I'm 23 skiddo.”

The back door's tinted window slid down. “If you're going to use slang from the 1920s, use it in the right context.”

“Sorry. How exactly _did_ you use it back then?”

“Right. Merry Christmas.” The window rose as the man fell back against his seat and sunk his chin deep into the collar of his vicuna coat.

“I'm an atheist!” Milly shouted at her angry reflection in the glass.

The car pulled into traffic and disappeared down 5th Avenue.

She immediately regretted refusing his offer. It was going to be a very long, freezing trip to her dinky one-room apartment.

Milly Farrier, who'd been home-schooled, who didn't have so much as a G.E.D., but who had studied and studied on her own so well she'd been able to qualify for the Atlas Forge Bank's internship, was fired. No unemployment. Not enough in her savings. And rent was due.

* * *

“I should have insisted,” Vandevere muttered as he clicked the TV's remote on with his thumb. He threw his coat on the couch. Outside Vandevere Manor, the snow had increased.

“Yes,” Sotheby agreed with a grim face, handing the younger man his brandy snifter.

“I offered.” V.A. leaned back, one arm across the back of the huge couch, and sipped. “She wanted nothing to do with me. You saw.”

“She struck me as somewhat stunned and distraught. I would have thought you'd notice. If your brain had been engaged, not _another_ body part.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you really think drinking alcohol, even a small amount, is advisable? It's Christmas Eve.”

“ _Yes._ Because. It's Christmas Eve.” V.A. gulped the smoky amber liquid and frowned even harder while watching the live festivities from Rockefeller Center.

* * *

The studio apartment's worn door slammed open.

“ _Bastards._ ” Milly, shaking from more than the cold, threw her ineffectual coat across the small room.

Apparently sitting alone, staring out the subway window while you contemplate how evil the world is, was an invitation to be hit on by every heterosexual male who didn't have anything decent and harmless to do on Christmas Eve.

“Had I known what an _aphrodisiac_ hypothermia is, I'd have stayed at the _office_.” The young woman's face soured violently. “Oh. _Wait._ I _don't have_ an office any more. Or a _not-very-living wage_.” She banged the door closed. Her laugh had sharp edges. “I did my job so well I lost it! If only I'd been _shit_ at it!”

Seismic shivering drew her to the rusty Z-frame clothes rack she used, since she had no closet. Rather than grabbing a ratty sweater, Milly kicked aside the plushy circus animals lined on the floor.

“'Life's a circus.' Dad always says.” One after another she scraped the clothes aside with sharp metallic rasps, looking for something, but she had no idea what. “'Life's a circus.'” She halted at a forgotten black raincoat that looked like a congealed oil slick. When had she bought it? _Why?_ It was hideous.

Her mind sizzled as if fried by electricity. From a storage box she yanked her late mother's old sewing machine. She dumped the contents of the sewing basket. Spools of thread, packets of needles, scissors, covered the floor.

Having no kettle, Milly Farrier put a pot of water on the stove to boil for her godawful, Clearance Sale instant coffee. Waiting for it to boil she feverishly chopped the black rain-slicker to bits and muttered, “Dad always said I was like a cat, I'd always land on my feet.”

Well. She would. With a vengeance.

* * *

Of course, Neils Skellig Remington went unnoticed.

The crowds were either on their way to Rockefeller Center for the idiot Mayor's ice skating party for The People, or coming and going to restaurants, bars, or stores for last minute Christmas shopping.

The snow was thick. Another reason people paid him no mind.

He always walked with a smooth, steady pace when hunting. Unless and until his prey sensed him and increased their speed, which he always matched.

Tonight, there was no hurry. The girl had rebuffed the billionaire who'd stopped his car. It took her an hour to get home. He was waiting. But it was important that she go upstairs unimpeded. Unsuspecting. The body couldn't have any signs of violence or struggle.

From the sidewalk in front of the tenement building, Neils looked up. The windows lacked screens. This made things easier.

It was a simple matter of opening one of her windows.

No one knew she was fired. No one knew of the evidence, the memory stick and the files, which were already ashes in the bank's incinerator. There would be no fake suicide notes. Neils had contempt for those who tried to use such diversions. More often than not, they contained flaws; a word, phrase, spelling, or grammar the deceased would never have used; an uncharacteristic sentiment. It was important that the body remain silent.

The dark hall with its broken overhead lights and peeling wallpaper left over from the 1920s resonated with TV chatter and drunken laughter from the few rooms that were occupied. There was no light or sound from under the doors of the apartments surrounding hers. All the better. Removing witnesses would have complicated things.

To his surprise, her door was unlocked, the key dangling in the knob, as if forgotten the moment she entered. The single room was lit only by what looked to be a child's bedroom lamp. The shade was a red-and-white Big Top circus tent. Under it sat a baby elephant with big blue eyes. In spite of himself he snickered and thought of his boots.

“I knooow.” The deep, purring voice came as close to surprising Neils as he'd ever been. “Isn't it awful? A gift from _Daddy_.”

Behind him, the door shut. The lock clicked. Neils swerved round.

Stretching against the door, her arms and legs spread wide, her back arching, was a girl. His prey. But he could only tell that by her large, green eyes, full lips, and one long, curly chestnut strand of hair playing across her face. The rest of her, literally, was encased in what looked like a cheap, handmade Dominatrix unitard. It was badly sewn together from several pieces of all sizes, with one particular, jagged seam across her ample bust that snaked around the back and over her full buttocks as she turned around and stretched with languid, feline grace.

“ _Mmmmmmm._ Who's being a _bad boy_ and murdering people on Christmas Eve?”

Neils grabbed for her. With agility that astonished him, she dove, hands first, did a backward somersault, and landed on her high heels.

“That's not,” she kicked out, “the holiday,” Neils grabbed her foot, “ _spirit_.”

Just as he was about to snap her ankle, she spun, literally spun, horizontally in mid air, and the heel of her other shoe stabbed his cheek, drawing blood. She landed in a squat as he scrambled to gain his composure.

“Awww, c'mon, Remington Junior. I've seen all the dead animal heads on your daddy's office wall. He's _so proud_ of how well you _kill_ things.”

Neils no longer cared whether her corpse bore evidence of an attack. He had leather gloves. There would be no prints when he ripped the leg from the small, feeble desk from Goodwill. When he brandished it, the girl laughed.

“It's _easy_ to kill big cats when you're _two hundred yards away_ , firing a rifle, _Big Man_. Not so easy when all you've got is a _big stick_.”

His lunge connected with her shoulder, but she was already in motion, going past him, not away as he assumed she would. He turned, the jagged, broken end of the wooden leg aimed at her like a sword, when boiling water splashed his face.

For the first time in his life, Neils screamed with pain. He dropped his weapon and covered his eyes, swearing in agony.

“Ouchy. Bet that _stings_. Here.” With three backflips the girl who was Milly but wasn't reached the old ceiling-to-floor windows of the run-down 1920s tenement building and yanked one open. It indeed had no screen.

Neils, all but blinded, swung for her. She side-stepped, leaving nothing between him and open air. He tried to stall, but she was behind him, kicking out.

“ _Better put some ice on that._ ”

Neils didn't scream on the way down. He landed face first on the snow-covered sidewalk.

Nothing bore witness but the snowflakes. Christmas carols from the Mayor's celebration on TV blared from the windows around her.

Milly closed the window, locked it, pulled the curtains, placed the empty pot on the stove, wiped up the water from the floor, stuck the towel in her laundry basket, and stretched.

“Aww, I think I pulled a muscle,” she confided to her plushies. “If I'd known I was going to have _company_ I'd have _warmed up_.” With a feline yawn she pulled her father's old rawhide whip from another storage box.

“Circus child, circus child,” she sang. “Now, you all be _good_. Mommy's got some Midnight Christmas shopping to do. I'll bring home _surprises_.”

* * *

V.A. clicked off the TV. “Shit,” he muttered. “I suppose I should be at the Mayor's midnight party.” He checked his Cartier watch.

Sotheby paused, his eyes looking past the younger man, out toward the distant skyline. “I believe you may wish to give it a miss.”

V.A. looked over his shoulder. What he saw made him stand up.

The huge round light with its simple bat-shaped insignia lit up the top floors of the Empire State Building.


	2. Cum, They Told Me.

Building Dreamland's service tunnels was the perfect excuse for the construction of a subterranean labyrinth beyond its confines which no one but a very select, discreet few knew existed. The tunnels stretched in all directions underneath Coney Island, New York City, and all its boroughs. Undetected, disguised.

The computer signal was clear through the satellite link in the Batmobile, even as it rushed at a hundred miles an hour in the tunnel beneath Manhattan. But Batman didn't need the map on his dashboard. He knew very well where Cartier was. It was where he'd purchased the watch now waiting at home.

The vehicle emerged inside an abandoned textile building and slid into the camouflage of a false collapsed wall. He emerged from it and hurried toward 653 5th Avenue.  
  


* * *

  
“ _Come, they told me_ , “ Milly-who-wasn't-quite-Milly sang, “ _pa rum pa pum_ _ **pum**_ _!_ ” On the last _pum_ her whip decapitated a mannequin wearing glittering diamond earrings. Its head rolled across the marble floor of the luxury store until it was stopped by a glass case full of emerald and ruby jewelry.

“ _I've never had nice things_ ,” the young woman continued singing, winding up the whip over her head, “ _pa rum pa pum_ _ **pum**_!”

The whip smashed the glass, whose pieces fell on the rings, bracelets, and necklaces inside.

Squeeing, Milly jump-roped her whip until she came to the broken case. Ignoring the alarms which had been activated when she first broke in, she lifted a 24 carat solid gold ring set with an emerald. It was too small to fit over her vinyl-gloved finger, so she danged it from a claw.

“ _Don't need a man for this stone, pa rum pa pum pum_!” she sang as she admired her prize. “ _I got it on my own, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum! Mer-ry Christ-mas to me, pa rum_ \- - - “

“It's not yours,” said a deep, dry voice behind her.

Milly paused. Both the security guards were tied up in red holiday ribbon in the bathroom, red bows stuffed in their mouths. Neither had a deep voice. Their yelps of protest and fear had been decidedly high-pitched.

Gripping the handle of her whip, she slowly turned with a wide smile, ready to crack the gun out of the hand of the guard or policeman confronting her.

She froze. The man didn't have a gun. He wasn't what she'd expected at all.

She wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before. Fit but curvaceous, Batman was disturbed to notice. _Why_ did he notice? When working, his libido was in cold storage, nonexistent, absolutely out of reach. No enticement, no flashed breast or lifted skirt as a bribe or distraction from a criminal, ever registered on his brain.

But something about the young woman before him, even encased in a ridiculous vinyl costume barely held together by thread, seemed immediately familiar. He mentally shook it off.

His mask, like hers, obscured most of his face. But not all. Why did she think she'd seen him before, recently, that he was someone who'd stuck in her mind? Men, and boys, didn't make impressions on her, except badly. Every boy she'd dated had been clumsy and immature. Every man who'd tried to date her had been superior and entitled. All were vicious and threatening when refused. Why the fuck was she thinking about that _now_?

Coming to her senses first, she ran for the back of the store.

Batman pursued. She was astonishingly limber in the plastic suit, leaping over cases and broken glass. The back door was open. He reached the alley in time to see her clambering up the fire escape like an expert.

Choosing to go on the roof, however, was the move of an amateur. She looked suitably shocked and disorientated as she gauged the distance between this building and the nearest, thirty feet away.

“You're cornered,” Batman said, standing on the tar-papered roof. It was covered with snow, a few soda cans, and a creaky cable TV satellite dish strung with Christmas lights. “Don't try to leap across, you won't make it.”

“ _Meow,_ ” she replied, on instinct.

“Of course.” Batman managed not to look her up and down. “A cat? I don't mean to assume.”

Milly's voice was smoky, throaty, nothing like it'd ever been before. Though her face wasn't completely hidden, something about the mask emboldened her. “Ever seen _Cat People_?”

“Which one?”

Milly hesitated. “There's more than one?”

“1942 original,” Batman rasped. “Starring Simone Simon. Directed by Jacques Tourneur. Remade in 1982. Starring Natassja Kinski.”

“The 1942 one. One of my favorite movies.”

“Classic film noir.”

“I adore film noir.” She shifted her feet. “The remake any good?”

His mouth twitched. “Completely rewritten. Gratuitously gory. A woman housekeeper is named Female. Brother attempts to rape his sister.”

“ _Eww!_ God, _why_?”

“Can anyone explain the sick minds in this world?”

“Don't ask me, that's for sure.”

“So, the cat thing." He gestured at her. "Cosplay?”

“No, it . . . just kind of happened. But it makes me think of Irena. So, yeah. I'll go with that.” Spontaneously, she declared her new persona. “I'm _Catwoman_.”

“Two words? Or hyphenated?”

“One word. It's . . . neater. What would Irena say? _Chattefemme_?”

“Simone would say it in French, but Irena spoke . . whatever language her people had in the movie, Eastern European --"

"Serbian."

"Right. But I don't think _Chattefemme_ is correct.”

“Oh. I took Spanish, not French.”

“Terrific film, though.”

“God, yeah. I need to see it again.”

“Me, too. It's been years.”

They both looked at their feet.

“You have to surrender to the police,” Batman pointed out.

“Oh, _c'mon!_ Do you know the profit margin on these things? It would take me two years as an intern to afford this,” she held up the ring, crammed over her little finger, “and then only if I didn't pay the rent or buy groceries! And I'm not even an intern anymore!”

“Intern?” Why did that sound familiar as well?

“I was just fired! _Seriously_ fired! They tried to literally _terminate_ my contract! On Christmas Eve, thank you very much!”

“That's awful. I'm sorry. But not being able to afford something doesn't justify stealing it.”

Catwoman stuck her fist on her hip. “What about _Jean Valjean?_ ”

"You've seen the musical?"

"I _read_ the _book_. Do you think I don't read big books because I'm younger?"

"Yes, I did think that. I'm impressed. Great work of literature. The psychological observations are a hundred years ahead of its time."

"I know, right? Victor Hugo really understood human nature."

“The point is," he cleared his throat, "Valjean stole _bread_. To feed his sister and her children. Not jewelry.”

“What if I want to sell this to feed myself?”

“Why not steal money? Or food? Do you even know how to fence jewelry? It's not something you can Google.”

“Yes, it is. _I_ did. I'm not an idiot who didn't think this through!”

Batman sighed. “Damn Internet.”

Flustered, Catwoman said, “OK, I just think this is really beautiful and I can never buy this so _fuck it all, stud_!”

“Stud?” For a second Batman was too stunned to respond to the whip whistling at his face. He turned his head and it bit uselessly against the back of his cowl.

“Wow.” Catwoman blinked. “That's sturdy stuff.”

“Better than what you're wearing. It's barely holding together. You've got to be freezing. It's so thin I can see your – “ He immediately shut his mouth and took his eyes from the two hard nipples pushing against the material. After a swallow he scowled at her. “That's enough, young woman.”

“Don't --” she cracked the whip at his face again “-- you _dare_ – “ another lash, and it wrapped around his ankle – “ _condescend!_ ” She yanked with all her might.

Batman was ready for it. He grabbed the whip with both hands and pulled. As he expected, being larger, taller, and stronger, the handle flew from her inferior grip.

“Okay,” Catwoman hissed, “you're more physically powerful. _Goody_ for you. But being _bigger_ isn't always a _benefit_.”

Remembering a tumbling act Dad desperately tried to teach her, in one fluid motion Catwoman dropped on all fours, sweeping her right leg out in an arc, knocking hard against Batman's hamstring. He instinctively bent at the knees against the blow. As she suspected, this threw off his balance for one second. One second was all it took.

Catwoman rolled toward the man in a ball, then sprang out straight, kicking up at the man's chest, both high heels slamming just below his sternum. Despite the tenacity of his suit, it was enough to expel the wind from his diaphragm and make him stagger backward.

She spun back onto her hands and knees and head-butted his gut.

He grappled for her, but he was already falling. The lip of the old brick building was too low, and he went over it.

“Wait a minute!” Catwoman yelled as she dashed to the edge. “You're not supposed to _die!_ ”

Looking down, her jaw dropped.

Her whip was lashed over a sandstone downspout. Batman had a fist wrapped around each end of the leather weapon, holding himself firmly, dangling several hundred feet above the pavement.

“Then what _am_ I supposed to do?” he growled, glaring up at her ten feet above.

She felt her face reddening. “Be . . .impressed.”

“I'm impressed,” his gravelly voice conceded.

He released his right hand fast enough to grab the downspout, then his other latched on. With amazing strength he lifted himself with his arms alone, then the toes of his boots found purchase in the gaps between bricks. Catwoman retreated as he pulled himself over the edge and to his feet.

“Speaking of impressed,” she said, breathlessly. “You're so old, but you can do that.”

“I'm forty,” he snarled, annoyed.

“Your point being?”

The kittenish tone made him realize she was teasing him. The pleasure he took from that was dangerously throwing him off guard again.

“This ends.” Batman used his deepest, most commanding voice. The one that made criminals wet themselves. “You're not skilled enough. This is too dangerous.”

“I'm more trained than you know.” Catwoman shifted behind the satellite dish, keeping an eye on the man.

He was between her and the door to the stairs, blocking an escape that way. Her access to the fire escape was cut off as well. He glanced around. They were the only people on any of the snow-covered roofs. No one to witness. Music from the celebration at nearby Rockefeller Center covered their conversation.

As softly as he could so that only she could hear, Batman said, “This isn't who you are.”

“You don't _know_ who I am,” Catwoman said from behind the dish. Her voice was slightly obscured by a metallic sound.

“I do.” Swallowing, he came closer. “Your mask. Not a good design. Half your face is revealed. People could remember.” Rougher and deeper, against his will, he said, “Your eyes . . and lips . . . are very . . . .” _Delicious. Seductive. Maddening._ “. . . distinctive. Only two percent of the human population has green eyes. And yours . . .” _Have thick, long, black, natural lashes that made my knees weak when you gaze at me through them._ “ . . . are unforgettable.”

His intoxication made him recognize too late the sound of metal screws being twisted and pulled out. He had only a second to leap out of the way of the huge, heavy satellite dish as it toppled toward him.

Landing flat on his back threw the air out of him again. _I was holding it,_ he realized with a sharp gasp. _What the fuck is wrong with me??_

Two feet stepped on his biceps, pinning them to the tarred roof. He blinked as the vinyl-encased girl straddled him.

The stitching of the seam across her chest had ripped. The gap revealed the underside of her very round and firm left breast. Batman found himself gulping for air, transfixed. Her skin was shiny with perspiration. His tongue tip played in his open mouth as his eyes caressed the sight.

Catwoman's mouth was dry. She swallowed roughly. Sitting across his waist, her thighs wide apart, was making her very hot inside her suit.

“You're in no position to criticize,” she purred. “ _Your mask_ isn't better. _Your_ eyes are . . . “ _**Sexy**_ _doesn't begin to describe them. I don't even know the right word. I can't think._ “ . . . and your lips . . .” She licked her own, which felt swollen. She whispered, “A girl would never forget those lips.” She pushed her crotch down harder. The thin vinyl felt the buckle of his utility belt press her very delicate, and hardening, clit. A breath of December air cooled the exposed skin of her breast, hardening her nipple.

Batman watched her warm-caramel face blush and pupils swell. Trying to maintain control, he glanced past her face.

Christmas lights were strung around the fallen satellite dish. Tied to one string was a red satin ribbon, from which dangled a sprig of mistletoe.

“Why have that all the way up here?” Batman mused aloud, by way of distracting himself from the increasing flow of blood to his cock.

Catwoman glanced up over her shoulder at the sprig. “Mistletoe is what people call _obligate hemiparasitiic_ plants, order _Santales_.” She was keenly aware of his torso under her crotch. Trying to keep her mind off the urge growing there, she muttered, “They attach to host trees or shrubs, then absorb nutrients and water from the host.”

She kept surprising him. It was disconcerting. And arousing. “How do you know that?”

Catwoman crossed her arms over his chest and shrugged self-consciously. “I've studied biology, physics, chemistry, astronomy . . . I want to be a . . . “ Her circumstances came back to her, hard. “I wanted to be something other than _this_. But screw that, now.”

His eyes examined every detail of her face her mask revealed. With a smile he said, “My little scientist.”

Catwoman snorted and sat up. Her curled fingers threatened his face with their metal claws. Her voice trembled and a frown pulled her lips as she said, “I _told_ you, _don't condescend_ , _stud_.”

“I'm not.” His voice was gentle.

She knew he wasn't insulting her. Quite the opposite. But him calling her that, almost an endearment, was startling. She leaned forward, placing her crossed arms at the base of his throat and applying a small pressure to his larynx. Casually, she mused, “Why do people kiss under a parasitic plant? It's not very romantic.”

With a constricted voice he replied, “Sucking the life essence from the thing that supports you seems exactly what people think is romantic.”

Catwoman sneered. “You're a cynic.”

“No more than you.”

“Mmmmmm.” She rolled her hips backward, feeling his sturdy suit massage her aching clit. _I can't believe I'm doing this._ Inexplicably, she had no desire to escape, even though she had the upper hand. Gazing up at the mistletoe, she murmured, “It's also poisonous. It can cause diarrhea, vomiting, blurred vision, and cardiac arrest. How's _that_ as a symbol of love?”

“But it's also a healer.” He felt her shifting hips. _Is she doing what I **think** she is?? _ He croaked, “It's used in medicine. For arthritis, hypertension, and infertility.”

Catwoman abandoned all caution. “I'm your little scientist, huh? Well then, I want to test that theory. Pretend _I'm_ mistletoe.”

Spontaneously, Catwoman's tongue stuck out into the cold air as she lowered her face toward his. He went rigid. The puffs of their breath mingled, then her tongue connected with his chin. Slowly, languorously, she licked up and across his parted lips.

Her breathing deepened as she muttered, “Any reaction?”

“Blurred vision.” He licked his lips. The solid chest of his suit expanded and retracted with the increased pace of his breathing. His pulsing cock shoved fervently at the suit's cup. “Heart rate and blood pressure rising.”

“And infertility?”

“Results aren't in yet.” His eyes darted past her face. “ _What the hell?_ ”

The moment Catwoman abruptly sat up, looking behind her for an interloper, her weight lifted from him. His hands gripped the edges of his cape and he rolled sideways. With inhuman swiftness his cape engulfed them both, folding under Catwoman as they went over. She landed flat on her back and he on top of her. His huge cape formed a protective cover.

“ _Psyche_ ,” he triumphantly whispered in her ear.

“No fair!” Her legs were splayed wide and he was between them. Easily a foot taller than she was, his whole body blanketed hers. Her arms were pinned at her sides, while his arms were on either side of her head, holding her down. “You're bigger and heavier!”

His voice was raw as he stared into her eyes. “I can't let you go.”

Her gaze locked with his. Did she imagine it, or was the blue of his eyes glowing? No, it wasn't her imagination. She whispered in return, “Funny. I was gonna say the same thing.” After a long inhale, her voice said, trembling, “Now _you're_ the mistletoe.”

His hesitation lasted only a few seconds. His gloved hands clasped her face as his mouth clasped hers.

Milly Farrier had never been kissed like this. Soft, firm, but not forceful. Her mouth opened eagerly, welcoming his tongue and embracing it. The very idea of tonguing had always sounded disgusting, but now she sucked and bit and slurped.

He was going insane. In all the years he'd put on the suit, and even out of it as V.A., he'd never lost his head. A steady diet of models, movie stars, and society women kept him sated, though never satisfied. More mature now, the drive wasn't as keen. Or it hadn't been. Until _her_.

He nibbled her full, perfectly sculpted lips, kissed her chin and nibbled it, and, in frustration, bit her vinyl-encased neck, hoping she felt something.

His fingers found the ripped seam across her chest. Flipping her had burst several threads, leaving inches exposed. “Are you cold?” he gasped, concerned.

“No, no.” She lifted her head and bit his chin, then fell back, her eyes clenched shut as she felt his fingertips tracing the open seam. “I'm hot. _So hot._ Feel it, _please_.”

The vinyl was still tight, but his fingertips gently slid under. The softness and warmth of her skin astonished him. So did the firmness of the underside of her breast. His mouth closed on hers as he frantically searched for her nipple.

“There?”

“Higher!”

His fingertips located nubby edge of her erect nipple. He drove his hand further in, careful that the snugness didn't hurt either of them. His palm covered the full curvature of her breast and felt her nipple push upward against it.

“Damn this cowl,” he gasped. Its limitation of movement was a problem he'd meant to address soon, but its immediate lack of range of motion made it impossible to bend his neck. He had to scoot down, under his cape tenting around them, in order to get his mouth where his hand was.

“OH, god.” Catwoman arched her back. His weight was off her enough so her arms were free. Feverishly, she tried to touch his hair as his lips and tongue forced themselves under the vinyl, but his head was encased.

Batman wrenched back her suit, the seam bursting apart and exposing her entire breast. As his mouth latched on she cried, “Oh GOD!”

Her breast was perfection. Round, firm, real. His lips surrounded her aerola as his tongue circumscribed her nipple. His hips moved in time with his sucking, the cup protecting his cock and balls growing uncomfortably snug as they engorged.

“ _Sssh_.” His head was pounding as he came up to kiss her swollen lips. “Hear those sirens? Cops everywhere, looking for the Cartier burglar. Sound travels.”

Catwoman's hand grasped his crotch. The material was too thick to feel any shape or outline. “You have a fly in this?”

“No,” he said, miserably.

“You must have the biggest bladder in the world.”

“I have places to deal with that kind of situation.” Mentally, Batman calculated their present location and the nearest secret, tiny rooms he used as safe houses. “Just none near enough. Not with all the police.” The sound of distant helicopters made him nervous. Caressing her breast he murmured, “I've never had _this_ situation before while in my suit.” Feeling disturbingly jealous that this might not be the case with her, he muttered, “What about you?”

“Oh, this is the suit's trial run.” Between kisses Catwoman said, “I just threw it together. Sewed myself in, and I didn't think to bring my sewing kit. So if it comes off, it stays off.”

“Not good planning.” He squeezed her breast.

Her words came in gasps. “I'm an impulsive – gal. That's why I exist. The other girl --- she overthinks everything. So her life --- is dull dull dull.” Fearing he didn't understand her, she asked, timidly, “How about you?”

The relief that she understood the duality of what he was, being that way herself, rushed a deeper emotion through him. “Yeah. I have a twin at home. Considers everything. Dots all the I's and crosses all the T's.”

“He's a grownup. He can do whatever he wants.”

“No one responsible does whatever he wants.”

“That's the difference between you and me. You dragged the responsible guy with you. Mine, she stays home.” Catwoman bit down on her metal claws and yanked them off, one by one. Her fingertips were exposed. She tried to apply pressure to his crotch, but it didn't give. “That's a hard shell.” Desperate, she asked, “Is what's inside hard, too?”

“ _Yes_.” He lifted himself, shifting his hips so her thighs widened, then resettled his crotch directly against hers. “ _You have no idea_.”

“Feeling constrained? Getting squeezed? Hurt any?”

“A bit.” His voice strained.

“But hurt _so good_ , stud?”

“Yeah. What about you. . . _pussy_?” He thrust forward, connecting just below her mound in the skin-tight suit.

She sucked in air as the vinyl, with no panties or material of any kind underneath, felt the long, upward movement. He rose on his elbows and shoved the molded bump of his suit down, and she emitted a startled, delighted mew.

“I think I hear purring.” He snorted in and out through his nose like a beast in rut. His voice was guttural as he asked, “Did I hit the button?”

She opened her legs as wide as they could go and begged, “Pull those down, _please!_ ”

“I can't,” he whined. “They're designed for protection. To not come off easily. They're complicated. Besides,” he looked up as he saw a helicopter sweep past, “we're too exposed here.” His voice deepened. “Will this do?” He lowered, his cape over both of them, so from the distance they looked like nothing more than a large garbage bag. His face panted beside hers as his hips thrust and stoked, in, up, and down. “ _Like_?”

No boy or man had ever humored her and rubbed her clit when she'd told them that was what she wanted and needed. How did he instinctively know just what she needed? Her head fell back, supported by his hands, her face protected from the falling snow by the cape tented over them. Her eyes closed as her juices began to trickle out and down the crack of her ass. “ _Uh huuuh_. You?”

The suit was designed to withstand kicks, bullets, and knife blades, and to give enough so it wouldn't create blisters. The give wasn't designed for a cock of his girth in full erection. Cramped, the maddening pulsation of the impeded blood flow caused actual pain. His balls were throbbing for lack of space. But the discomfort wasn't enough to overcome the ravenous demand for _her_. What little delicious friction he could get was enhanced by the look, smell, feel of _her,_ and the breathless hunger in her voice. “Oh, it's enough. It's more than enough.” Fantasies formed in his mind as he rocked harder against her mound. “ _For now.”_

“Now?” Catwoman asked, hopeful.

He hooked his arms around her legs, pulling them up and out of the way as he rubbed faster. He heard seams tear, and it drove him wild. His grin was gluttonous as his hand sought out her ass. A gap four inches wide had opened, and he drove in his fingers, clenched her ripe, sensuous flesh. She cried ecstatically. “You're a criminal. I have to take you in.”

A moment of fear brought her back to herself. “Jail?”

“House arrest.” He broke off rubbing long enough to suck her glorious breast. She twisted and _meowed_ as he held her legs apart and pushed. “Confine you for several hours in one room. _Naked._ With a big bed. Soft, thick mattress. Make you stay there until your sentence is up.”

“You going to pull out your rod of justice?” She fingered his swollen lips. They pulled in her forefinger and sucked greedily. “Make me a good girl?”

“Not a good one. Not if I can help it.” He humped torridly, one hand encasing her breast, the other holding her chin as he devoured kisses from her gasping mouth. “ _I wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you_.” He begged, “Did you want _me_ , then? Just plain V.A.? Did you?”

“ _Yes._ ” Milly threw her arms around his torso and thrust her hips up to meet each pounding stroke. “YES, I wanted you, I didn't care who you were, I didn't know, I . . .something about you . . . oh please, god, _don't slow down_ , _please don't!_ ”

His cock expanded against its confines, he could feel every pulse straining, felt his cockhead drooling, while his balls tightened in preparation. “Oh christ . . . I'm not gonna last.”

“Faster! _Harder!”_ The discomfort of the dry plastic was engulfed by the burning, quivering ache that ran from the root of her clit to deep within _._ “Rub me, rub me **raw** , _oh god!”_

“ _Cum, Pussy cat_. _Imagine my thick cock slamming in you and cum_!”

“YES!” The clenching explosion started deep down, triggering her cunt to repeatedly constrict and expand like a mouth performing a blowjob. “AA! AA, _**god!**_ ” Her high scream was drowned by police and fire truck sirens in the streets below. Her hips jerked as she hugged his wide, strong torso to her, her face buried in the neck of his cowl. The jerking clenching and unclenching of her cunt squeezed her cum down her ass, lubricating the vinyl as he continued to pound.

“You drive me insane,” he roared into her ear as his humping increased. “The moment you looked at me . . . my cock started to get hard . . .” He fell on her, securing his arms around her head as she trembled with aftershocks, his confined cock battering her so fast it made his cape billow. “ _You make my cock so fucking thick and stiff and insane, my balls are full because of you, so full they hurt, ah god, you're mine, I caught you and you're mine, aw fuck, it hurts, it hurts_ _ **so good**_ _,_ UH, NGH, **FUUUCK**.”

He shuddered on her as if stuck by a live wire. His arms and legs went numb as his cramped cock pulsated and balls contracted as if the girl gripped them. “GOD, GOD,” he cried, his loins shuddering with each spurt forced out like water from a hose bent in half. The hot cum squished around the cup of his Batsuit, inundating his balls. The last of his orgasm was like a lit sparkler shoved into his cock, delicious agony that made him cry, “ _Baby_.”

Milly stirred as if waking from unconsciousness. His cries and moans had deepened the last pulse of her orgasm. Slowly, she opened his eyes as his lips tenderly kissed her eyelids, then forehead, then nose tip, then chin, then lips.

For several minutes neither was aware of anything except themselves, entwined and protected by his cape. When Batman – V.A. – lifted his head, an inch of snow slid off his cowl.

“You okay?” he whispered, stroking her cheek with his forefinger.

Catwoman -- Milly -- nodded, grinning, and kissed him back.

“You're shivering.”

“Not from the cold.” She hugged him tighter. “You're shaking, too.”

“Not from the cold.” He chuckled. Shifting to take his weight off her made a squelching sound. Slightly embarrassed, V.A. said, “I'm a bit, uh . . .sticky.”

“Mmmm, me too.” Milly rubbed her nose against his chin, then gazed sleepily into his half-closed eyes. “That home confinement include showers?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Someone's over here!” a voice bellowed through a megaphone.

V.A. immediately shifted into his alternate persona. Batman prided himself on his ability to snap to attention at a second's notice. Now, however, his feet were unsteady as he rose, an arm around Milly's waist as he lifted her onto her own unbalanced feet. “Don't worry, those voices are blocks away. Whoever it is isn't talking about us.” He looked at her suit. “God, baby, I'm sorry.”

Her arms were crossed over her bare breast. The seam was completely ripped and a good portion of her torso and ass were exposed. “Don't be! I wanted you to.” She stood on her toes and rubbed her nose on his chin. "I guess we both have to slip back in our 'suits,' huh?"

"Unfortunately, for now."

After watching _The Incredibles_ , Sotheby had insisted V.A. alter the Batsuit. Using an electronic signal in his belt, Batman released the cape from his cowl. He swirled it around the girl. She instantly felt twenty degrees warmer. “That'll keep until we can get to the Batmobile.”

“But how do we get to it unnoticed?” she asked.

“You'll see. We can drop by your place and get you some clothes.”

Catwoman clutched the cape under her chin and frowned.

“What?” Fearful she wanted to stay there, he whispered, “You . . you don't _have_ to come home with me.”

“I want to! It's just . . . we can't go to my apartment. The dead body in front of my building makes things difficult.”

“The what?”

Not far from them, a gruff voice with a slight Southern accent said, “I thought you never wanted to be an act and be stared at? In _that_ , you're goin' to be stared at.”

Batman shoved Catwoman behind him and braced himself.

He and the speaker had height in common. But nothing else.

The man was traditionally handsome, except for the sharply pointed tip of his nose. Though his teeth were as pointed as his nose and gleamed sharply, his grin was strangely charismatic. His eyes were so dark they looked coal black, with one peering through a monocle. His thick, black eyebrows crouched together with hostile cunning. Peeking from under a black top hat was black hair with graying temples. His skin was pasty white, as if he'd been nurtured in a deep, damp cave.

His clothes were new, sharp, and impeccable; a white shirt, gray pinstriped trousers, gray vest, and black bow tie shot through with shiny gray dots. Over this he wore a knee-length, black sable coat trimmed with wolf fur.

The man leaned on a huge umbrella that looked like it was stuffed with something wriggling. “I looked all over for you, 'cuz word was sent to me that your apartment had been broken into. And my my, what did I find on the Welcome mat? Or should I say _who_?"

“Who are you?” Batman held his arms wide, shielding Catwoman. “Who are you talking to?”

“Not _you_.” the man sneered. “And they call _me_ a freak. I heard you were skulking around. Here I was goin' to get a piece of this jewelry store robbery, and my police scanner says the _Batman_ had already been there. So.” The man's grin made Batman stiffen. “I came prepared!”

Before Batman could respond the man cocked back his umbrella and yelled, “Lawn dart!” and threw.

It jabbed into the tar roof at Batman's feet and automatically opened.

A flurry of bats streamed straight up, squeaking in terror. They circled and headed for open sky.

“Come back here!” the monocled man ordered.

“DAD!” Catwoman yelled as she pushed in front of Batman.

“Oh, don't start, sugarplum,” grumped the man.

“ _Dad?_ ” said Batman. “ _Sugarplum?_ ”

“When I pointed out the bat colony in that abandoned garage I didn't think you were going to _kidnap_ them!” Catwoman yanked the umbrella from the tar paper, checked for any straggling bats, and tossed it over the edge of the building.

“Why the hell didn't they attack tall, dark, and plastic?!” snarled the man. “Bats're supposed to swarm at people, attack 'em, get stuck in their hair.” He glared at Batman's cowl. “Not that there's any hair to get caught in.”

“Those are myths!” Catwoman angrily planted herself in front of the man. “Bats have fine-tuned echolocation! They can sense how close people are and _avoid_ them! They were _scared!_ So they flew away as fast as possible!”

“Would someone explain this to me?” asked Batman.

“I am,” the man drew himself up dramatically, “ _The Penguin_.”

“Only in the circus.” Catwoman looked up at her lover. “He's my _father_. Holt Farrier. Former animal trainer for the Medici Brothers Family Circus.”

“I was a star! Until that jerk Max Medici decided he'd rather be Mayor than a Ringmaster, and sold the circus to asshole extraordinaire V.A. Vandevere, who has yet to include any of the acts in his fancy-schmancy theme park!” The Penguin's eyes slitted at Batman. “You heard of him?”

Catwoman cleared her throat uncomfortably and drew the cape closer around her.

“I've heard of him,” Batman's deep voice acknowledged. “I'm sorry if you're out of work.”

“But that's no excuse to take things that aren't yours!” Catwoman stated.

Batman paused. “What she said.”

“First,” The Penguin held up the index finger of a black-gloved hand, “what the Sam Hill happened to your apartment? Second, what the Sam Hill are you wearing? And Third, what the _fuck_ are you doing with _this_ guy?”

“I'm eighteen, Dad! I moved out months ago!”

“To become a _sci-en-tist_ ,” The Penguin said, snidely. “Yeah, I know. How's _that_ working out? I went to my good friend J.G. Remington and he said you quit your internship!”

“Your good friend tried to have me killed!”

“What?!” yelled Batman.

“Oh, c'mon, honey. He only murders people for _business_ purposes. You were just lowly research help. What could you possibly do to piss him off enough to have you killed?”

“ _Who_ tried to kill you?!” Batman cried.

“Never mind," said Catwoman. "Later.”

"Is _that_ why Skellig was there?" asked Holt.

"No, Dad, he came to give me _flowers._ What do you _think?_ What happened was self defense!"

" _Neils_ tried to _kill you?_ " cried Batman.

“You're out of work and you're coming home!” The Penguin held out his hand. “Give the nice weirdo his cape and let's scram. Police are crawling all over th' place.”

“I am _not_ going home! I'm not twelve, Dad! I'm not going to join your circus troupe and help you train the penguins to ride little bicycles and carry explosives!”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” said Batman.

“Fireworks,” said The Penguin, waving it away. “They were fireworks.”

“Fireworks aimed at the _audience_ , Dad!”

“I wanted to end the show with a bang.”

“Mr. . . ,” Batman paused, “Penguin --”

“Farrier.” Catwoman grabbed the front of her mask and yanked. The threads snapped. The pieces fell aside as her mane of curly, chestnut hair spilled out. “We're the _Farriers_.”

“I'm _The Penguin!”_ he objected, incensed. _“_ And I'm going to make a big splash in this city!” His nose pointed like a dagger at Batman. “And _nobody_ better stand in my way. Now let's get home, young lady!”

Batman stepped forward. “Cat – Milly goes where _she_ wants to.”

“Who the fuck are _you_ t' come between a father and his daughter? _Faugh!_ ” Lurching backward and reaching around him, The Penguin whipped out another huge umbrella like a sword. “Well, see if you can keep her from coming home while _trying to save the Mayor and Remington!_ ”

With an impressive throw the umbrella shot past Batman's reach. Rather than falling, it flew on, as if propelled by some engine he couldn't see. He stood on the edge, watching as the thing flew toward Rockefeller Center, only a block away.

The Penguin laughed manically as the umbrella's tip thunked into the ice of the skating rink, startling those enjoying a Christmas Eve turn before the shining tree. The Mayor and Remington, who'd only just wrapped up the final act of the tree-lighting show, stared at it.

The umbrella burst open.

Everyone gasped.

Nothing happened.

“What the fuck?” yelled The Penguin. “Why aren't the bats attacking?!”

“If they're dead, Dad, I will never speak to you again!” Milly cried, her hands to her mouth.

"Suck some blood already, you moron rodents!" shouted The Penguin.

"Bats aren't _rodents_! Not even close! They're the order _Chiroptera_!"

"You see what I have to live with?" The Penguin complained to Batman. "My daughter, the walking Google."

“Wait,” said Batman. From his utility belt he pulled a telescope, only two inches long. He extended it to four inches and peered through it.

Milly and The Penguin came up next to him. “What do you see?” the girl asked, anxious.

People were peeking inside the giant umbrella. Some mouthed _ooh_ and _oh poor things_! Tentatively, a small brown bat crawled to the top. Its head jerked as it sniffing. In a second it was in the air, headed straight up. More bats climbed to the top, one by one following the first. They swarmed the air around the upper part of the Christmas tree. Perhaps seeking warmth, they landed and draped, upside-down, among the yellow, green, and red lights and gold tinsel.

The skaters and audience all applauded. A rich tenor voice sang, “ _Oh Christmas bats, oh Christmas bats!_ ” The rest joined in.

“Way to terrorize the city, Dad,” said Milly.

“Rats.” The Penguin sniffed. “It shoulda been rats.”

A helicopter emblazoned with POLICE turned from circling the celebrations toward the building they stood on. A search light swept back and forth, coming closer.

“I expect you home, sugarplum! This guy is a bad influence!” The Penguin stepped onto the handle of yet another giant umbrella. With a sarcastic and vinegary doff of his top hat to Batman, he flipped a switch in the umbrella's handle. Its canopy spun at a blinding rate. With surprising speed, The Penguin was airborne, flying into the darkness away from the search lights. “And bring home milk, we're out!” he shouted before disappearing into the windblown snow.

“Okay.” Batman looked down at Milly. “If you want to go home . . .” He swallowed.

She lifted her right hand. The emerald in the ring glittered. "You caught me with stolen goods. I _thought_ I was under _house arrest_.” She curled her arms around him.

His mask couldn't hide his relieved and jubilant smile. “You bet you are.”

“Hot shower, big soft bed, and all?”

V.A. Vandevere, aka Batman, ran his gloved hand through Milly's hair waving in the cold wind and dusted with sparkling snowflakes, impatient to feel it with his bare hand. “ _Definitely_.” His hand lifted her chin as their mouths connected.

He clicked the Batmobile's auto-call button on his belt. Feeling as if she were actually purring, Milly was gathered into his arms.

* * *

When the New York Police's helicopter hovered above the roof where two mysterious figures were spotted after the Cartier break-in, there was no one. “Just a satellite dish tipped over,” the officer radioed back to Commissioner Gordon. “Lucky the damn thing didn't fall off the roof.”

They headed back, oblivious to the flash of black in the alley that disappeared into an abandoned textile building and the tunnel below.  
  


* * *

  
The next morning, as the manager of Cartier was supervising the cleanup, he noticed a sealed envelope in the cash register. Inside, a printed note read PAYMENT FOR 1 (ONE) PRINCESS CUT 1.5 CARAT EMERALD 24K GOLD RING SIZE 5. The note was folded around eight thousand dollars in cash.

The manager had lived and worked in the singular madness of New York City for several decades. "Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah," was all he said, and rang up the sale.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure Cartier on 5th Avenue isn't really only a block away from Rockefeller Center. Don't care. ;-)
> 
> For years I worked as a wildlife rehabilitator, rescuing wild animals from houses, garages, businesses, bars, you name it. This included bats. I've even harmlessly taken bats from my own apartment.
> 
> I love bats. I've even raised a few babies and released them back into the wild. They're so damn intelligent, shy, and cute!
> 
> The scenes in "Batman Returns" when the bats swarm at the Ice Princess and the people at the tree-lighting ceremony irritated the hell out of me. Bats can tell where people are, and they do their damnedest to stay away from them. They don't swarm like killer bees. A confined bat, when freed, will take for the open sky immediately.
> 
> So I had to include a retort to that in this fic. For the sake of the poor, misunderstood, misrepresented bats!

**Author's Note:**

> Recent entertainment news has been saturated with excitement that Michael Keaton will return as Batman in "The Flash" and Colin Farrell will be The Penguin in "The Batman." And, of course, Danny DeVito wore the mantle of The Penguin alongside Keaton in "Batman Returns." And all three starred in my main fandom, the live action "Dumbo."
> 
> I absorbed all this and, from out of the blue, this fic demanded to be written. Originally it was just going to be a couple scenes. Me being me, it turned into a Novelette.


End file.
